 | English Roses |  |
BURNS.
Scotland's heart of burning fire,
Moved by every wind and weather,
Gold of gorse and purple heather,
All delight and all desire!
Blending with the bliss of song
Taught by the ascending lark,
Hatred of our ills and wrong
Done to brothers in the dark;
Thine the human touch for good,
Thine the tender wit that mellows
Bitter strife and makes us fellows,
In one holy brotherhood.
Moved by every wind and weather,
Gold of gorse and purple heather,
All delight and all desire!
Blending with the bliss of song
Taught by the ascending lark,
Hatred of our ills and wrong
Done to brothers in the dark;
Thine the human touch for good,
Thine the tender wit that mellows
Bitter strife and makes us fellows,
In one holy brotherhood.
Nothing little was or mean
To the vastness of thy vision,
And before thy love's decision
Nothing common and unclean;
Thou didst gather from the plough,
Painted butterfly and bee,
Moorside bracken, fruiting bough,
Something of the great and free;
Minds of men and laughing brooks,
Birds and white rose maidens' magic,
What was true and what was tragic,
Were alike to thee but books.
To the vastness of thy vision,
And before thy love's decision
Nothing common and unclean;
Thou didst gather from the plough,
Painted butterfly and bee,
Moorside bracken, fruiting bough,
Something of the great and free;
Minds of men and laughing brooks,
Birds and white rose maidens' magic,
What was true and what was tragic,
Were alike to thee but books.
Even the mouse that pattered by
Gave thy tune its homely flavour,
And the humblest weed found favour
With thy own mortality;
Surly sods that unto toil
Opened out their yellow heart,
Poured the passion of the soil
And its perfume in thine art;
While the thunder of the gale
Salted by each Frith and forland,
Blew thee from its iron nor'land
Madder music for thy tale.
Gave thy tune its homely flavour,
And the humblest weed found favour
With thy own mortality;
Surly sods that unto toil
Opened out their yellow heart,
Poured the passion of the soil
And its perfume in thine art;
While the thunder of the gale
540
Blew thee from its iron nor'land
Madder music for thy tale.
Daisies with their dewdrops wet,
Breath of lute and lowing cattle
Driven to homesteads and red battle,
Murmured in thy song and met;
Thou didst gild the cottage cup
And by hedgerows pause to pray,
And the peasant proud stood up
Knighted by thy lordly lay.
Stretching dimly to the morn
Hopeful hands, yet thou art bringing
Presents for all time and singing
With thy breast against the thorn.
Breath of lute and lowing cattle
Driven to homesteads and red battle,
Murmured in thy song and met;
Thou didst gild the cottage cup
And by hedgerows pause to pray,
And the peasant proud stood up
Knighted by thy lordly lay.
Stretching dimly to the morn
Hopeful hands, yet thou art bringing
Presents for all time and singing
With thy breast against the thorn.
| English Roses | |